


How Freely Blame Flies (More Free Than We Are Now)

by MissScatteredThoughts



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Falling out of the wardrobe, Golden Age (Narnia), One Shot, Post-The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Susan Has Some Things to Say, The Problem of Susan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScatteredThoughts/pseuds/MissScatteredThoughts
Summary: Susan Pevensie hadn’t always been so quiet about Narnia. Before she insisted that they were only games, before she mentally separated herself from the kingdom she had once ruled, Susan had quite a bit to say.Or,A story of what transpired immediately after the Pevensies fell out of their Golden Age into Spare Oom.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	How Freely Blame Flies (More Free Than We Are Now)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello anyone reading this!  
> This is my first piece on AO3, which is rather exciting on my end. I hope you enjoy it!  
> I'm a little late to the era of writing Narnian fanfiction, I'm sure. But once a fan of the Chronicles, always a fan of the Chronicles.
> 
> Of course, credit belongs to the late C.S. Lewis, who gave us these wonderful characters and interesting story.  
> Happy Thanksgiving,  
> MissScatteredThoughts

“Spare Oom”, Queen Lucy muttered, drawing Susan’s gaze from the lantern to Lucy’s puzzled face. _It is as though her body has remained here, and her mind is in another place completely_ , the Gentle queen reflected for an instant before the younger woman turned to run, as though possessed by the place itself.

  
Queen Susan hiked up her gown and began the chase, huffing out a low “not again” as she recalled the many times, she had followed the younger queen through the forest. Lucy, with her connection to the land of Narnia, had always shown a preference for the forest when not tied up in fighting or negotiations. She considered it part of ruling to be out among the Narnians, and was not hesitant to spend time in the branches of trees or occasionally the arms of a certain dryad. Often after a battle, Lucy would take to the wood, where Susan would find her later dancing with dryads in the moonlight.

  
The soft fabric of Queen Susan’s riding cape caught on branches, as she followed High King Peter in the process of chasing their youngest ruler. _She spends so much time with the dryads_ , it seems as though she has practically become one, she thought as she watched Queen Lucy dodge another branch. Susan’s feet slowed, a sense of Déjà vu sweeping over her as bows of pine surrounded them, needles brushing her hair and face. Had they not been following Lucy, she may have stopped to consider why she felt the barest of memories creeping in the back of her mind, but she pressed on with Edmund at her heels. _Did the High King just say something about coats_ , she wondered, shaking her head at the incongruity. But an instant later, the rough bark of pine turned soft like animal skins brushing against her arms, making her balk and step backwards onto King Edmunds foot. One moment they had been evenly chasing each other in the dappled sunshine, now Susan felt as though they were on top of each other and the light was fading so quickly.

* * *

The sensation of falling lasted only a few seconds, but jolted Susan’s stomach in a way that almost rivaled the hard landing of her knees on wooden floor. Although dazed in the bright, watery light, Susan’s mind immediately started to take stock and gather information, as they had learned to in potentially dangerous situations. Her hands were on the floor to steady herself and she froze for a millisecond as she looked at them. These are not my hands, she decisively thought as she gazed at the soft, pale flesh that betrayed no hint of callouses. This must be a dream, came next, as she looked around at the other figures on the floor. They were too small, too soft, too young. Susan instantly wanted to gather them all up in her arms, the mothering instinct in her wishing she could protect them from whatever magic had cursed them this way. Lucy’s face was scared, the emotion magnified on such a small face, still rounded with baby fat. Susan saw the urge to cry in her blue eyes, as well as the confusion flickering behind the unshed tears because _Queen Lucy the Valiant does not cry without great cause_. Edmund looked shocked, a manic look forming in his dark eyes with a disbelieving smile as though he may laugh, because _what witchcraft have we fallen into, to make us seem so young_. Peter’s betrayed confusion, as he gazed at the spare room and his siblings. The door swinging open, causes the cultured mask he developed from years as High King to fall into place, reading the situation so quickly and deciding it called for neutrality, for always at the bottom line _Whatever may come, we shall be ready and they shall be protected_.

  
Those first few moments, no part of her was screaming to turn around, for there seemed to be no possible way Queen Susan the Gentle was truly on the floor of Spare Oom. It had to be a fanciful dream or a piece of deep magic that had been cast upon them. But as the seconds turned to minutes turned to hours, her spirit seemed to grow in desperation. Deep inside she felt the urge to beg, bargain, and plead with Aslan in order to go back, to return to her true life.

  
Susan had not been following the words Peter was telling Professor Kirke at all. Her fingers were moving up and down her arms, pinching and pulling in an ineffective attempt to wake up from this strange dream. The urge thrummed inside her, as she barely restrained herself from running from the room. Her socks felt too stiff, itchy, tight. Her skirt too constricting, scratchy, thick. She formulated speeches in her head, addressed to the Narnian people, apologizing for their absence. It changed every minute to accommodate for the extra time that they had been gone.  
She didn’t keep track of Peter’s story, or of Edmund's and Lucy’s additions. She stayed silent, gazing out the window, even as the Professor asks if there is anything else, they can tell him. That question, “Is there anything else to your tale, children?”, though spoken so earnestly, stirs a bitter feeling inside her. She wants to sweep aside her hair, which should be yards longer than it is now, and tell him what she is thinking, “ _How dare you address the High King Peter, Lord of Cair Paravel, Emperor of the Long Islands as a child? How dare you address any of us, kings and queens, as children. You believe it possible for us to regale you with fifteen years of life, of battle and sorrow, celebration and joy? You are a fool, if you believe you comprehend all of what we have told you. Aslan may have spoken to you, but he crowned us the rulers of Narnia_.” It is vain and unfair, but the words unfurl in her mind, as a snake preparing to strike. She kept her silence, even then, practically having to bite her lip bloody to prevent the words from coming out.

  
After being dismissed to return to their rooms, she crumbled to the urge, ignoring the hushed whispers of “Susan!” from behind her. The wardrobe room was in the opposite direction of their quarters, a thought that reminds her why Lucy had chosen it as a hiding position in that old game they used to play. Her legs are too short, catching on steps and slowing her down, exacerbated by the shoes that are too heavy on her feet. It feels as though she doesn’t breathe until she’s reached the wardrobe, hesitating at the heavy door they had stumbled out of only a few hours ago. Her stubby fingers trace the wood, as she whispers a quick prayer to Aslan. Peter, Edmund, and Lucy are quiet about their entrance to the spare room behind her, but Susan has had an ear out for the three of them for the past decade and a half. She hadn’t spent all that time running reconnaissance missions with Peter, strategizing battle schemes with Edmund, or healing Narnian citizens in need with Lucy, to not know the sounds of their proximity, even in the quietest of settings.

  
She slowly pulled the door open, heavier than she recalls it being on a morning that was either several hours or fifteen years before, depending on which side of the wardrobe you were standing in. The coat sleeves are soft under the fingers she lightly brushes over them, as she definitively recalled the fabric of one resting on her shoulders, as they trudged through the powdery snow of the White Witches Realm. Her heart pounds underneath the starchy shirt, as she grips a coat to push it to the side. Taking a deep breath, she started to mentally recite the apologies and explanations for the Narnians, as she steps in and pushes the coats fully out of the way…

  
She is greeted by a completely ordinary wardrobe back, made of ordinary wood that betrays no give, even as she presses all her might against it. Choking back tears, she exited the wardrobe, standing as tall as her current stature allowed. Peter, Edmund, and Lucy held no judgment in their eyes, but Susan refused to look at any of her siblings. They follow her silently, a funeral procession if ever one existed, to their rooms in the Professors house. Their words of understanding and sorrow are stemmed by Susan, as she held one hand up as a signal for them to stop.  
Susan, who had earned the right to be called Gentle, felt the words she had been holding in start to tear out of her, harsh and unforgiving, as soon as the bedroom door clicked shut.

  
“I do not know why we have been cursed to return to our child lives, but we must have committed some mistake for such a fate to be thrust on us.”

  
“Sister—”, Lucy began softly, only to be cut off as her older sister proceeded.

  
“No, I am speaking now. You had quite enough to say, leading us to that damn wardrobe. Have you stopped to consider, that if you had just listened for once, we might not be here?” The words were arrows notched and aimed at the little girl before her, whose eyes were so much older than her face betrayed.

  
“If you didn’t leap into every course of action that occurs to you spontaneously, if you had stopped to consider the consequences.” If, If, If. Susan knew words that could bring Lucy to her knees, but the tears starting to trail down the childlike face begged for mercy. Unable to stop the rage, she whipped around to face Peter, who was carefully not voicing the opinions hidden behind the mask of neutral expression he utilized for diplomatic interactions. Susan ripped it off the only way she knew how.

  
“My _High King_ ”, she spat in a mockery of all the times she had said it sincerely, “what was it about that white stag that was so necessary? We had everything we could have ever wanted or needed, yet your pride has ruined us all. Were you so desperate to find a suitable bride, that you were willing to gamble on chasing a mythical creature to grant you one? We have abandoned our people, our kingdom.”

  
Her voice caught on the final sentence, as anger gave away to loss. She drew herself up to her full height, too short still, and turned to her fellow negotiator, Edmund. Practically whispering, “You, who cautioned us in every action we undertook, encouraged this fool’s errand without hesitation. We had citizens, Narnians, who depended on us. What will become of them? Who will they turn to for wisdom, healing, mercy, and leadership? You have seen that the wardrobe is not an open pathway back. Aslan has looked upon us and turned away.” The rejection that colored her words filled the room, as she walked out, leaving the three to try to accept what she had just laid upon each of them.

* * *

Perched in one of many window seats in the Professor’s house, Susan pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could keep herself from falling apart again by physically holding tight. The moonlight fell upon her face, but it was not comfort. It was as if even the moon here did not shine as bright as the one in Narnia. The words she had said to her ~~fellow kings and queen~~ brothers and sister reverberated in her mind. A part of her knew it was unfair to blame as she had so freely done, it went against everything she had stood for in Narnia. She tried to feel remorse, repeating to herself “ _I am Queen Susan the Gentle, I must strive to be better”_. She didn’t feel anything though, as the recitation kept being interrupted by the crawling thought of “ _Why should I do better, when I’ve been stripped of that very title_ ”. Her hands worried her hair till it fell out of its pins. In the back of her mind she noted that it had been a simple style, clumsily done, so different from the clever Narnian styles she could do now that would hold up even against horseback riding.

  
Forcing her hands to her lap, to control the tangles already forming in her hair, she took a deep breath. In the pale moonlight, she made the decision that would affect the rest of her life. If Narnia would not have her back, she would put Narnia behind her. Perhaps not all at once, but piece by piece, as one packs away a house in preparation to move. There may be tears, but there would be no more outbursts. There may be stories, but there would be no dwelling on memories. She folded her hands in an empty prayer that one day Narnia might be nothing but a fond memory, for she wanted to scream at the thought of spending the rest of her life with this gaping wound in her chest that ached for a land beyond reach.


End file.
